The Greatest Price
by Nawyn
Summary: After the kinslaying at Sirion, young Elrond is torn between loyalty to Elros and, of all things, a growing sympathy for Maglor.


**The Greatest Price**

Elros cannot forgive. I see it in his cold eyes, in the spareness of his words, in the set of his jaw when he so much as thinks of either one of them. He looks like he wants to spit whenever Maedhros speaks. My brother is a hard one, but he had it from our mother, she who threw her scorn in the teeth of their messengers. Proud and beautiful she was when she refused them, but when they had gone she came to us and clutched us so tightly that I thought my head might burst, and holding us she whispered, "Never forget that the most precious things bear the greatest price. Such things cannot be surrendered without denying the suffering of those who paid it." She drew back then and gazed hard at each of us in turn, her eyes bright with tears, but her lips set firm and unyielding.

I see that same steely will in Elros now. Indeed, I rarely see him look anything but cold and hard. I do not know how to reach him, or whether indeed he can yet be brought back to himself.

He must despise me, for I cannot summon such iron within myself. Fear – yes, that I have in plenty, and a great wailing rift at the center of my fëa for all that I have lost – but no anger, not even any bitterness. It is a flaw in me, that I know. By rights I should despise them both for the slaughter at Sirion, but they took no joy in it, that was plain from the first. If they did not revel in killing, I cannot find it in me to revel in hatred.

In truth, I wish I did not fear them so much. Perhaps then I could breathe more easily, or sleep without seeing death and a drawn sword in every shadow. I think I will always be afraid of Maedhros – his glance is ice, and his mouth looks never to have known a smile, and he speaks in a calm measured tone that makes me shudder. To Maglor, that is. He never speaks to Elros or me, not in words. His messages to us come in the form of stony silences and shattering looks that freeze me to the ground and make words halt on my tongue. I think he wishes he had not listened to Maglor, and had killed us in Sirion. It is his face I see when I wake in the night and think I hear my death approaching, although he has drawn not so much as a knife on either of us.

Maglor is different. I cannot put from my mind my first sight of him, bloodstained and covered in sweat with a blade in his hands that ran with red. And yet I cannot forget that he spoke for Elros and me, that we would have died had he not put forth his hand and spared us. His every move is laden with weariness, yet he is careful with us, offering awkward comfort no matter how many times Elros scorns it, speaking soft and gently to us, calling a halt when we are weary in spite of what Maedhros wishes. I think he would have us care for him. He is certainly the only one left who cares for us.

Elros is harshest to him, perhaps because he knows there is no way to wound Maedhros. He spurns Maglor's hand when it is offered. He closes his ears to every word Maglor says. And I have seen the harsh secret smile on his lips when he knows that Maglor has felt the hurt.

If there was a way to soothe Maglor without betraying my brother, I think I would take it. No matter that he has destroyed all that I knew to be eternal and infallible. He is in pain, and he wants to be healed, and I know not how much longer I can keep myself from trying to comfort him.

000

Maedhros put up a crude tent for Elros and me, silent and grim, while Maglor roasted a wild fowl freshly slain and offered bits of the crackly skin to us. I can still taste it in the corners of my mouth as I lie in the tent under my blanket. It is a worn thing, and smells strange, but I cannot expect less. It is half of Maglor's cloak, that he cut in two with his hunting knife and gave to Elros and me for use as cloaks and covers. Now he rides with his arms pressed close to his sides, and we fare little better with the threadbare cloth than without it, but he smiles faintly whenever he sees them wrapped around us.

He must be faring ill tonight. The wind whips hard, and he sits outside the tent by the dying remnants of the cooking fire. Where Maedhros is, I know not. Elros is pretending to have fallen into trance. He does not yet know that I can tell when he is only feigning. It is a simple matter really, no more than judging the patterns of his breath. Also, when he pretends, his eyes flicker from spot to spot instead of glassing over. I consider whispering to him, but then I remember Maglor outside, who will certainly hear everything, and I hold my tongue.

Footsteps rustle past the tent. I hold perfectly still – Elros' breath catches in his throat. The steps move on, stopping a little distance from us, and I hear Maedhros' voice. "Will you not see reason?" he demands, his voice pitched low.

"I am quite comfortable," Maglor replies. Leaves crackle beneath him as he shifts his weight.

Maedhros hisses angrily. "I am not speaking of your comfort! I am speaking of the fact that even now you are barely conscious. You have not rested in three days. There is no need for you to sit the watch. I am quite capable of guarding us."

"I know it," says Maglor. "But I wish to think, and this is the easiest way to do it."

I push back the front fold of the tent and peer out. Maglor sits still and calm by the black crusts of the fire. Maedhros, on his feet beside him, is still as well, but with the kind of stillness ready to explode into motion. He stares at Maglor for a moment, then spins away, almost snarling. He takes no more than two steps before he swings his own cloak from his shoulders and returns to Maglor's side, throwing it over his brother's back. "There," he says. "You may as well have some protection from the wind."

For a moment Maglor looks as though he will protest, but Maedhros' face is determined, and he nods and pulls the cloak closer about him. "Thank you, Russandol," he says, half-smiling.

To my astonishment, Maedhros smiles back – thinly, and unevenly, but a smile nevertheless. "Do not think too long," he says softly, almost too softly for me to hear. "Some thoughts do more harm than good."

He clasps Maglor's hand briefly, then turns and disappears back into the night.

I sit back from the opening. Elros pushes himself up onto his elbows. "Maglor came out quite the better," he says. "Maedhros' cloak is much less battered."

"Do you think he gave his own cloak to us on purpose?" I ask, astonished for the second time tonight. "That he meant to trap his own brother into giving his cloak up? Do you not think he might simply have done it because he wished us to be comfortable?"

"I would put nothing past either one of them," Elros says flatly. His round cheeks seem out of place next to the chill of his gaze – too young they seem, too trusting, too innocent. "Never forget who they are, and what they have done."

Suddenly I do not wish to be near my brother. I gather my makeshift cloak around my shoulders and reach for the tent opening. Not even the bitter wind and the thought of Maedhros lurking in the dark can halt me. They are far warmer than Elros' heart.

I have half left the tent when I freeze, motionless, my heart beating like a bird against the bars of a cage. Beside the dead fire Maglor is singing. The wind snatches all the words away, but the tune remains, mournful and fair at once, and endlessly grieving even amid its beauty. It slips beneath my skin and into my very bones until all of me, hröa and fëa together, sings the melody with Maglor. Dimly I realize that tears are spilling unchecked down my cheeks.

I stumble from the tent, barely hearing the clamor of my hasty trembling steps. Maglor turns at the sound of my approach, and I freeze again halfway between him and the tent. He smiles to see me. His cheeks are as wet as my own – the starlight glistens on them and turns each tear track into a chip of pearl. "Did I wake you?" he asks, his voice unclouded by his weeping.

No such fortune is mine. "No," I say. The words come out cracked and broken. "What was that song?"

His smile fades, and all his weariness breaks over his face at once. "It is not yet finished," he says. "I am making it to be true, and truth is hard to tell. When it is done, it will be the tale of the fall of the Noldor."

"It made you weep," I say, taking a tentative step closer. "Why must you finish it if it makes you sad?"

"It is precisely because I weep at the song that I must make it," he says.

I do not understand, quite, but I take another step toward him. "What is in it?"

"Many things," he says. "Things fair and wondrous that are gone from the world. Deeds of great courage and deeds so dark I can hardly bear to think on them, let alone set them to music."

I swallow hard. "Is – is Sirion in your song?"

Maglor nods. His eyes are hollow with pain. "It must be, if the song is to tell true. But I have not come to it yet. Other deeds came before it, although perhaps none will precede it in memory," he adds with a touch of bitterness I would sooner have expected of Maedhros. "You wept as well," he says. "Do you hate me for what I have done, Elrond?"

"No," I whisper. My throat is dry.

"You are a gentler judge than myself," says Maglor. "And my judgment on myself is merciful compared to Maedhros'. Sometimes I think he will break under his own hatred of himself."

"But you took no pleasure in it," I say, almost desperate to banish his heavy look, the harshness of his voice. "You were sick from it. I saw it in your eyes."

"Yes," says Maglor. "And yet we did it."

He is silent, staring without sight into the blackened char of the fire. The wind lashes his tangled hair across his face. I am glad of it – it keeps me from seeing the look on his face.

Rough cloth rustles behind me, and I feel Elros' eyes on my back. He is sorry – I can tell from the feel of his gaze. He wants to ask my pardon, to be forgiven. He wants me to remember how young we both are.

But he _is _young. There will be other times for his forgiveness. And the most precious things bear the greatest price.

I take three unsteady steps and kneel beside Maglor, fitting the slim short fingers of my hand against his larger ones. He starts at the touch and looks up at me with his eyes utterly unguarded. "I want to hear more," I say.

"You will hate me," he says. "With every word I sing, you will find new reasons to despise me."

"Let me judge whether or not I must hate you," I say. "Sing to me. I want to hear."


End file.
